"Emily, Emily!"
The door of the house flew open and a tall, iron-haired woman dressed from head to foot in black—vintage of the last century—flew down the walk with surprisingly agility, given her age. Her face was shot through with wrinkles and from her expression Stella could not tell if she were smiling or about to cry.
"Aunt Elizabeth," Mother whispered in Stella's ear, and stepped forward into the old woman's arms.
But after the most cursory of embraces, Aunt Elizabeth seemed to recall herself. She stepped back and began rearranging her hair with quick, sensible gestures. "I'm glad to see you've arrived in one piece," she said, as though a moment before she had not been about to burst into hot, happy tears. "You look exhausted. You always did get those shadows under your eyes when you weren't sleeping enough. Have you been sleeping?"
"I did a little writing on the boat," Emily said. "Aunt Elizabeth—this is Stella."
Aunt Elizabeth seemed to see her for the first time, the pale little girl holding tight to her mother's hand. What did she think when she saw the girl? Undersized—lanky, in the coltish way that children often had—and the black certainly wasn't her best color. But…
"Murray to the core," Aunt Elizabeth pronounced. "No Priest about her at all."
Stella felt a sudden flash of indignance—it came on her at times, so swiftly that she never felt it coming and it always scared her a little after. "I'm Priest enough," she said, with what she soon after realized must be a healthy dose of impertinence. As quickly as it had come the swift feeling vanished, and she shrank back, afraid of what Aunt Elizabeth might say.
She did not say much. She looked it. And then she looked at Emily and said, bewilderingly, "It's a little like looking into the past." To Stella she said, "Come in, child, come in."
"New Moon has changed," Emily marveled, as they went in to the parlour. "Oh, those colored grasses are gone—somebody got rid of them at last—and new furniture—new drapes—paint—Aunt Elizabeth, what is the meaning of this?"
"It's Andrew," said Aunt Elizabeth, with a wave of her hand. "He's 'renovating'—a fancy word for meddling in other peoples' affairs. He hasn't forgotten that New Moon will be his one day, when we're gone. He first had the idea years ago when Laura was sick with the flu after the war. I suppose he thought that we wouldn't last much longer. I couldn't stop him—and—and—well, I do like the new paper." Aunt Elizabeth looked fondly at the print of blue-bells and cabbage roses splashed over the walls. "I picked it out myself, you know."
"The kitchen?" asked Emily, faintly. "Oh, please, Aunt Elizabeth…"
Aunt Elizabeth's brows darkened. "If you think I'd let that man into my kitchen then you've lost your senses."
"Oh, thank goodness," said Emily, relieved.
The kitchen was where they went next, and Stella felt immediately at home there. A cosy fire burned in the hearth that took up one whole wall, and the low ceiling and heavy beams reminded her of the Elizabethan cottage—one of her favorite places that she had lived. Father had been well, there, and they had been happy. She was glad Aunt Elizabeth had not taken them into the dining room, which was stuffy and formal and bore (Stella would come to know, later) the distinct decorative hallmark of Cousin Andrew's wife. She would never have felt at home at New Moon if the parlour had been her first taste of it.
Seated by the fire in a chair was a very pretty, plump woman with blonde hair—a sort of dying blonde colour, Stella thought, and was pleased by the thought. She always liked finding a new, fresh way of expressing her thoughts to herself. To say that the woman had fair hair, or hair with white streaks running through it, would not have captured the air of brilliance that still hung around it. Like Aunt Elizabeth, she wore black, and like Aunt Elizabeth, her face was lined, but unlike Aunt Elizabeth she was pink of cheek and blue of eye, and there was a general sense of pleasantness coming from her—not, Stella thought, that Aunt Elizabeth was unpleasant. It was just that this woman seemed to exude kindness and rosy sweetness.
"Hello, Aunt Laura," she said.
Aunt Laura turned toward her, and Stella could see right away that something was not right with her eyes. They were not fixed on Stella's face, but on a point somewhere in the mid-distance. The left pupil was a marbled, milky colour. Stella realized with a shock that Aunt Laura was blind.
"It was the flu," Aunt Laura said, as if she knew what her young grand-niece was thinking. "Allan—Allan Burnley, our doctor—said it sometimes happens that way. Poor Allan—how I miss him! But I'm really very lucky," she added. "It could have been far worse."
Stella remembered something that her father had said about Aunt Laura, once: "The woman has the most infuriating way of making lemonade out of perfectly good lemons." But Stella did not think it infuriating. She thought it very brave.
Aunt Elizabeth set a platter of doughnuts on the table, and Aunt Laura, with surprisingly gracefulness, poured the tea by feel. "Cambric tea," said Emily with a grimace, and Stella sipped at her cup delicately.
"I like it," she pronounced. "It's good."
"So you see, Aunt Elizabeth, the child is nothing like me," Mother pronounced.
"You're smiling, Emily," said Aunt Laura. "I can hear it in your voice." To Stella she said, "What do you think of New Moon so far, dear child?"
"I love it," said Stella, with surprising immediance.
"But you've hardly seen any of it!" cried Aunt Elizabeth. "I don't approve of the way young folk love this and love that. Millie—Ilse's girl—loves apple crumble and the next day it's blueberry cobbler. In my day, love meant a very certain type of feeling, not to be taken lightly."
"But I do love it," Stella said simply. "My soul can breathe here."
Mother smiled at her over her cup. "And you'll love it even more with every day. I'll take you myself to see the Three Princesses—the Tomorrow Road—and Lofty John's bush—my bush, I mean. But I want Cousin Jimmy to show you around the garden—and the old orchard—as he did for me so many years ago. Oh, Aunties dear, where is Cousin Jimmy?"
"Here!" cried a voice from the door and Stella turned and saw a very interesting looking old man. He looked old everywhere—from his forked grey beard to the tips of his boots—except for his eyes. If Stella did not know better, she would have thought him straight out of one of mother's darling fairytales. He was smiling—but as she met his eyes a sudden, queer look came over them.
"Emily—Emily," he said, but he was looking at Stella. "Why, Little Emily's come back—you've brought her back with her—she is as sweet and dear to me as ever. She won't ever fade away, that little Emily of ours—she will always be so sweet—she has come."
Stella wanted to feel a little afraid, but Mother had explained things to her, and said she must not—ever—be afraid of Cousin Jimmy. He was only a little eerie by spells, because of his accident, when he had been a boy. He blinked, and he was smiling again. It had gone.
"I'm pleased to meet you, pussy-cat," he said, "I'm very glad you've come."
"Take your tea, Jimmy," said Aunt Laura.
"After you clean your boots," said Aunt Elizabeth.
Cousin Jimmy cleaned his boots and came back and they all sat down together. Stella sipped her tea and listened to them talk around her.
"You mentioned Ilse," Mother said, clasping her hands under her lap. "Oh, is she around? The last I heard from her was when Perry was elected MP—but that was years ago—and Ilse seemed to suggest they would live in Charlottetown year-round."
"Perry's MP for this district," Aunt Elizabeth said, "So he has to spend part of the year here—canvassing—and the like. They moved into Allan's house when he passed and Ilse's decorated it so that it looks like a gin-joint—of course. Young Peter," (who was called Pierrot, but Aunt Elizabeth would never deign to use the 'Frenchy' name), "was fifteen in January and Little Millie—good gracious—she was eleven last month. How time does fly!"
"Eleven—like me!" Stella thought, enamored at the idea of a chum her own age. She had never had a real girl-friend before—she had not had many friends—apart from Father and Mother—who were such good friends that nobody else seemed to matter. But now the idea of a girl-friend—and cousin, Aunt Laura explained, though distantly related—was intoxicating.
"I am glad to hear they're well," said Mother, her eyes large and limpid looking at the mention of her old friends. "Oh, I can't wait to get reacquainted with Ilse—I hope she isn't angry with me for being such a bad friend all these years. But Dean was always so sick—and—and—Aunt Elizabeth, is there—is there anybody else from the old days around?"
"Why, yes," said Aunt Elizabeth, and a light came into Mother's eyes. Stella knew that light—it meant she was about to have the flash. But then Aunt Elizabeth said, "I believe you know Evelyn Norris, don't you—from Shrewsbury? Evelyn Blake, she used to be—she's living in Stovepipe Town now—or 'Stowes Glen,' as we're supposed to call it."
"That neighborhood has become very fashionable," Aunt Laura explained.
But the white light had gone out of Mother's eyes. She turned away from Aunt Elizabeth and began to chatter with Uncle Jimmy about her old garden.
Aunt Laura leaned over and whispered in Stella's ear. "Come with me," she said.